


A Wish to Build a Dream On

by AdelaideArcher



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 04:20:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12740889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaideArcher/pseuds/AdelaideArcher
Summary: Hermione is devastated to discover that Severus chose not to save himself after Nagini’s attack, and wishes she could persuade him to live instead. Apparently wishes work differently in the magical world.





	A Wish to Build a Dream On

Written for the 2016 SSHG Giftfest on LJ, for Cokeworth.  
 **Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters belong to JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement intended.  
 **Summary:** Hermione is devastated to discover that Snape chose not to save himself after Nagini’s attack, and wishes she could persuade him to live instead. Apparently wishes work differently in the magical world.  
 **Author's Note:** Thanks as always to the amazing L, H and M, who supported, cajoled, bribed and browbeat me into completing this fic, and then wrestled it into submission. Any errors are mine, of course. 

 

Give me a kiss to build a dream on  
And my imagination will thrive upon that kiss  
Sweetheart, I ask no more than this  
A kiss to build a dream on

Louis Armstrong

 

May 2nd, 1998, 7:56am

Detaching herself gently from the grief-stricken clutch of Molly Weasley, Hermione scanned the Great Hall for any sign of Harry or Ron. Harry, she spotted quickly. He and Ginny were wrapped in each other’s arms. Harry looked as if the tears had stopped, for now, but Ginny still sobbed softly. Not wanting to disturb them, she searched for Ron. As she’d half expected, he was with George, each holding one of Fred’s cold hands. She watched Ron for a moment, a half-smile on her face. Ron looked up, as if feeling her gaze on him. Their eyes met briefly, then his fell back to Fred’s lifeless form. 

She would have to do this alone then.

Quietly, Hermione edged her way around the perimeter of the Great Hall, deftly weaving around mourners and aurors alike. Reaching the door, she let herself out and padded softly to the enormous front doors of Hogwarts Castle. One door hung off its hinges, giving a snaggle-toothed look in keeping with the broken windows, smashed turrets and churned lawns. Hogwarts herself was as much a casualty of battle as any of the injured sheltering inside.

It was a surprisingly beautiful spring morning, completely at odds with the carnage all around. The early morning sun had no real warmth as yet, but it held the promise of the rare golden glory of a perfect Scottish day. Trudging down the hill towards her destination, Hermione blinked away the tears that suddenly stung her eyes. _Such a bloody waste._

At last she was there. Squaring her shoulders resolutely, she stood upright at the end of the tunnel leading to the Shrieking Shack. Boarded windows let in little of the light from outside and Hermione took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim room. Forcing herself to look at the centre of the room, she saw the black-shrouded body of Professor Snape. Grimly, she turned to her self-appointed task. 

Hermione later thought that she’d been coping remarkably well. Until, that is, she gently touched the chest of her former teacher and felt something unexpectedly hard under her hand. Curiosity getting the better of her inclination to leave him some secrets, she unbuttoned his coat, laughing a little hysterically as she did so. It seemed almost obscene somehow, to be undressing the buttoned up, repressed Professor Severus Snape, even if it was merely to reach the inside pocket of his waistcoat.

Hermione’s fingers wriggled their way into Professor Snape’s pocket, emerging a few seconds later with a brown potions bottle in their grasp. A second and third forage revealed two more bottles, identical but for the labels. 

“Blood Replenisher,” read one, the spidery scrawl of Snape’s hand smudged only a little. “Dittany,” said the second. The third was quite badly smudged, the label a little torn and peeling. Squinting in the dim light, she could read only a few initials. AVN. _AVN? What on earth?_

“I wonder why he didn’t try to use these,” she muttered out loud. “Although I don’t suppose healing the wound and replacing lost blood would be much use without some sort of…” her voice trailed off as the probable meaning of _AVN_ came to her.

“Fuck! Snape! You had the anti-venom for that FUCKING snake and you didn’t use it? Why would you not try to save yourself?” she yelled.

Unable to stop herself, and a little horrified at her actions, Hermione pounded her fist into Snape’s still chest. “You git! You were on our side and you DIED!” Tears were flowing free and fast now, mingling with sweat and snot and tangling in the hair which had managed to escape the confines of its plait. “You absolute _arse_ , Snape, why would you let yourself die?”

Rocking back and forth on her knees, sobbing for what felt like hours, the answer came. Sniffing and wiping her face on her sleeve, she sat back. “You had nothing to live for, did you?”

Hermione pushed her hair out of her eyes impatiently and placed her hand, gently this time, over Snape’s heart. “Professor Snape, I’m sorry. I wish, oh, I _wish_ I could go back and give you a reason to live.”

At her words, a crimson and silver cloud of light swirled around the room, silent yet paradoxically deafening. Wind whipped her hair, but the professor’s hair lay still. The wind increased, and Hermione was terrified to feel herself swept up off the floor, tossing and turning in the maelstrom. “What is happening?” she gasped, as the now cyclonic current swirled faster and faster, before depositing her once more on the floor.

But she was no longer in the Shrieking Shack.

* * *

June 19, 1996, 12:13am

She didn’t dare open her eyes. 

“Severus,” a voice—Madam Pomfrey?—said softly, “You should go to bed. It’s been a long night and you must be exhausted. I’ll just send a report through to the Headmaster and I’ll be off myself. Miss Granger will recover now, and Mr Weasley should be out of here in the next day or two.”

Hermione heard a soft sigh as Madam Pomfrey’s footsteps echoed down the ward. _I must be in the Hospital Wing. And my chest is numb. Have I…? What? Is this the Ministry night? Is that why my chest is numb?_

Her jumbled thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Professor Snape’s sigh once more. She risked opening her eyes and saw him, a silent sentinel, perched on a stool at the foot of her bed. She closed her eyes again and lay still, pondering his presence at her bedside. The dawn lightened in the sky outside the window before he stood up and stretched, his spine cracking audibly. “You’ll live, Granger. You’ll live.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she whispered. Professor Snape’s footsteps slowed but he did not turn around. Hermione did not know whether or not he had heard her.

Crimson and silver whirled around her as she was swept up in the hurricane once more.

* * *

July 3, 1993, 11:27am

Hermione peered at her nearly fourteen-year-old reflection in the bedroom mirror of her childhood home in Oxfordshire. Her movements were a little stiff and she wondered why her younger self was attempting ballet positions. Her ballet lessons had lasted all of eighteen months and the only time Hermione recalled trying a plie again was—ah. After her petrification, as she worked the residual stiffness out of her limbs. Was she being taken back to all the times when Professor Snape had saved her life? But he wasn’t here; how could she thank him this time? Her eyes fell on her small white desk, overrun with books, parchment, ball-point pens and quills. Biting her lip, she sat down on the little chair. 

_Dear Professor Snape,_ she began, intrigued to see the rounded hand-writing of her early adolescence again. _I wanted to thank you for brewing the Mandrake potion that released me and the others from the paralysis. I know from my reading that it takes a lot of time, effort and skill to brew. Thank you again, and I will try not to be annoying in your class next year. Yours sincerely, H. Granger._

* * *

March 18, 1998, 11:47am

Hermione landed in a grim alley. It was freezing, and she noted absently how hungry this Hermione seemed to be. She looked down at her hands resting on her very grubby jeans, fingernails bitten to the quick. _For Merlin’s sake, I’m bloody camping again._ Why was I here again though?

The answer came in a flash. Tired of stealing from farms, she’d decided to try her luck in a corner shop in a town instead. Astonishingly, she’d picked up a tenner on the side of the road leading into Wardle, and was thrilled at the thought of actually _buying_ food instead of nicking it. 

She’d been almost high on the thought of food they didn’t have to cook themselves and, while mildly regretting blowing ten pounds on one meal, half an hour later she trudged out of town laden down with a bag of bread rolls, a cooked chicken, a pre-made salad and a bottle of fizzy drink. Her mouth watered at the thought of lunch. For once, her attention wandered from the task immediately at hand; namely, getting back to the tent safely and without being seen. The watery late winter sun beamed weakly down on her as her feet crunched over the frozen ground. She sang softly under her breath, slightly embarrassed to realise it was a Spice Girls song. “Friendship never ends...if you wanna be my…” She stopped abruptly as a tall man dressed in black stepped into her path. Her wand was useless in her back pocket, her hands full of carrier bags. 

“Well met, Miss Granger.”

“Professor! What are you doing here?”

“I am alone, do not fear.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, and it was almost true.

Snape gave her a strange half-smile. “You are keeping well? It is nearly at an end, I think.”

“Well, but hungry.” 

Snape looked at the carrier bags of groceries with an air of satisfaction. “Make sure you eat when you can. We will all need our strength.”

“Yes. Good luck, Professor.”

She whirled out of that reality again, wondering where she would land next.

* * *

February 17, 1997, 1:13am

Hermione woke with a start, her heart pounding. _Professor Snape?_ Flushing guiltily, she recalled the more—unusual—aspects of her dream, at least as much as she could. It was a strange mix of murmured words in his velvet voice, and the image of his hands, with those long, slender fingers, slight callouses and nicks, and strong, square palms. Thanking Merlin (and God for good measure) that she couldn’t recall any details that had her heart racing and her groin tingling, she attempted to calm herself down. _It’s just a dream. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a dream._

* * *

March 21, 1997, 8:15am

The by now familiar maelstrom swirled around— _It’s lucky I don’t get motion sickness!_ —and deposited Hermione outside the DADA classroom. Flummoxed, she scrabbled in her book bag for her homework diary. As always, it opened to the correct day. Friday the 21st March. She scanned down the page. _See Pr. Snape re DADA help._ Hermione remembered this day now. She’d had a fit of panic about her post-Hogwarts future, indulging herself in the myth that the following year would be spent calmly at school, Lord Voldemort would somehow be vanquished, and life would continue upon a fairly normal trajectory. Thus, she’d decided to ask Professor Snape for some extra help with Defence Against the Dark Arts, knowing it was her weakest subject and desperately wanting, in those deluded moments, a full complement of Outstanding N.E.W.T.s. Hermione flushed as she recalled coming to her senses about both the chance of Snape’s willingness to assist her, and the true nature of the coming year’s fight against Voldemort and his dark forces. Her past self had scuttled off with her tail metaphorically between her legs. It seemed, however, that the Wish Magic (as she was calling it) had other ideas.

Slowly, determinedly, she forced herself to knock on the classroom door.

“Enter.”

Professor Snape did not look up from his work as Hermione walked timidly towards his desk and stood in front of it.

“I don’t have all day, Granger. What do you want?”

Hermione froze. The speech she had planned so long ago was not only mostly forgotten, but also seemed out of keeping with her wish—to give him a reason to want to live. Professor Snape gave an impatient jerk of his head. 

“If you’ve nothing to say, Granger, the door is behind you and it’ll be twenty points for wasting my time.”

“No, I… I do have something to say, Sir.”

“Out with it, then.”

“Sir, it’s just… it’s.” She cleared her throat, and started again, gathering up her courage like a cloak around her. “Sir, there are difficult times ahead. I know what you must do, and I know things will not be as they seem, for any of us, and I wanted to say that… that you are not alone.”

She chanced a glance at his face, which had lost its usual impassivity for once. He looked utterly dumbfounded. Their eyes met, and Hermione felt, for an instant, that she could see to the depths of his soul. The moment passed, and icy fury crossed his face.

“Miss Granger, I do not know, and nor do I wish to, what it is you think you know. I do know, however, that your impertinence knows no bounds. I think it best that you leave. NOW!”

Hermione gulped and nodded.

“Yes, Sir. I’m going, Sir.”

She scuttled to the door, then, throwing caution to the wind, she looked back at him. “It’s true though, Sir. You’re not alone, and… and you’re very brave. Sir.”

The door closed behind her, and the crimson-silver cyclone started again.

* * *

May 2, 1998, 7:56am

Detaching herself gently from the clutches of Molly Weasley, Hermione scanned the Great Hall for any sign of Harry or Ron. Harry, she spotted quickly. He and Ginny were wrapped in each other’s arms. Harry looked as if the tears had stopped, for now, but Ginny still sobbed softly. Not wanting to disturb them, she searched for Ron. As she’d half expected, he was with George, each holding one of Fred’s hands. She watched Ron for a moment, a half-smile on her face. Ron looked up, as if feeling her gaze on him. Their eyes met briefly, then his fell back to Fred’s wounded form. 

Good. She would prefer to do this alone.

Panting heavily, Hermione ran her way through the glorious spring morning towards the Whomping Willow, which was as strangely still as everything else in the Hogwarts grounds. The tunnel seemed longer than she remembered, and she dreaded seeing what was waiting for her at the other end.

At last she reached the tunnel’s end. Hesitantly, she stepped into the dusty room and was greeted by the sight of Professor Snape’s body, lying as if lifeless on the filthy floor. Hardly daring to breathe, she knelt beside him, touching his face gently. His eyelids flickered open.

“Professor,” she breathed, “Professor, can you hear me?”

Professor Snape gave a little moan. 

“It’s okay, Sir. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Snape’s eyes opened fully, and met hers. “Look at me,” he asked. As her eyes filled with tears, she did as he requested, and, as had happened all those years ago in his classroom, she felt that she could see the depths of his very soul.

“I’m not alone?” he whispered. “You’re truly here?”

“Always,” she answered.


End file.
